Beauty underneath
by Countess Hargreaves
Summary: "Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word."(G.R.R. Martin) The day John entered his new school, he promised himself to be strong and start anew, forgetting what ever happened to him and just be a normal teenager. But the second he met eyes with the tall, raven haired boy in the back of the classroom, he knew he was lost. Johnlock, Teenlock
1. Prologue - Hell on your doorstep

Hey everyone and welcome to my first Sherlock-ff. First of all, I have to warn you, english isn't my native language, so I fear there will be quite a few mistakes, please, bear with me, I try to improve.

A few more words of warning, regarding this story: as you surely have noticed, this is AU, since Sherlock as well as John are teens still. "beauty underneath" is rated M and categorized angst for a very good reason, there will be mentioning of severe child abuse, sexual assault going as far as rape, attempted suicide, self harm and much more.

Please consider yourselves warned.

That much being said: On with the show and "enjoy".

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**Prologue – Hell on your doorstep**

It was raining – again. He can't stand the rain; never could. It's depressing. He slowly walked out of the big building. It was June 1st - it should be hot outside. But there were only thick grey clouds covering the sky. He shivered, it was chilly. It had been a while since he had been just outside.. They weren't allowed in the open air to often – it would be to much trouble for the guards to watch them.

The bus was waiting at the wrought-iron gate- it would take them back to the real world. He still couldn't believe his time was over. He has been waiting for this moment, a whole 9 months, since the court sentenced him to be here: the Wilkinsons Home, a juvenile facility for young boys.

At the time of his leaving, the facility held 734 youthful offenders, all housed in five separated units. From the outside, the Home resembled what those who ran it wanted it to resemble: some kind of nice school or university. It was a massive, time-honored block of brick buildings with a cast-iron sign in front of the main door displaying the name of the founder. Trees lined the street leading from the gate to the main entrance causing it to resemble to an antique film set. If it weren't for the large electrified fences everywhere, one could succumb to the illusion that this wasn't a prison at all, but rather an ancient mansion.

Yes, all in all it just looked like a nice, old boarding school for the upper class.

He knew it was none of those things,but closer to hell. It was not a group of innocent young boys at this facility. Most of the inmates, if not all, belonged there. Some of them were riding out their second or third sentences, and all of them were violent offenders. Just like he was. Very few seemed sorry about what they had done. And as for rehabilitation? Don't even think about it. Most of the boys knew perfectly well where the road was leading. And they didn't seem to care.

He didn't look back as he approached the bus with the other boys. He didn't look back when the bus turned and left the grounds of the facility. And he sure as hell didn't look back when the building of his nightmares was nearly out of sight.

It took them about two hours and a half to reach their destination. He didn't do anything other than stare at the back of the ugly seat before him. He clutched his release papers in his right hand; not even noticing when his fingernails pierced the skin of his palm after going right through the thin paper.

When he got off the bus, he spotted her instantly. She was waiting for him- always was. When she noticed him, she waved furiously, a big smile plastered on her pale face. The boy didn't smile back, he didn't have it in him. The guard who watched them on the drive ushered them out of the bus. There weren't many adults to collect the boys, and the ones who came didn't seem happy at all. Many parents or guardians simply tried to forget their sons were to come home again. They didn't want to deal with them.

By the time he reached the woman, he was brought into a breathtaking, bone-braking hug. He didn't respond like he would have 9 months ago. "What is it, little one? You aren't happy to see me?" He shrugged, but didn't talk. The woman didn't press further. He didn't know what had happened, but, even she believed it wouldn't be that easy. They couldn't pick up where they left off. After all, the kid had been in prison for 9 months. Anyone would change. She just hadn't expected it to be so obvious.

Their trip home was a quiet affair. Neither spoke. When they reached their apartment, he nearly choked at the sight. There were about thirty notes pinned to their apartment door. His sister reacted fast and opened the door as quickly as she could, but he read some of them anyway. "Murderer! Should've stayed where you were", "We don't need fags nor killers here", "Scum". "Die!"

"Sorry, kiddo. I removed them this morning, but..." The boy shook his head.

"I guess they are faster than you are, Sis." His sister gave a goofy smile and scratched the back of her head awkwardly, but couldn't think of anything to say.

He knew it was foolish of him to think it would go away if he ignored it. Nevertheless, he tried- he tried indeed. He ignored the insults directed at him every time he stepped out of the apartment, he pretended not to see the hating glares boring into the back of his head as soon as he stepped foot upon the street, and he dodged the little stones and old fruit which were thrown at him. And he sincerely hoped it would get better.

* * *

It didn't get better – if anything it got much worse.

Two weeks after school started, he thought that it would almost have been easier for him to just stay where he has been. Almost, mind you. He started skipping classes so he could get away from the stares and whispers; which wouldn't quiet even after the teacher entered the room. His belongings kept disappearing from his school bag, his locker had been broken into more than once, and ugly scribbling could be found all over his locker door.

Then the chasing and beatings began. Other students would corner him whenever they found him, kick him, slap him, hit him, and no one would even attempt to stop the perpetrators. After school, he tried to hide in the old bathrooms in the gym. But they would always find him.

His sister tried reasoning with the parents of his tormentors, but they didn't listen. They just shunned her like they did him.

It was then, a plan slowly began to form in his mind. He couldn't go on- not like this anyway. He needed to do something. His sister was having trouble with the neighbors too, he knew. They avoided her because she took the boy in again. It would have been easier if she had just sent him away. But, he knew, his sister wouldn't do something like that. She would never ever abandon him.

He planned everything very carefully. He knew when his sister was going to be away, so he would be alone in the apartment. Two days before, he bought himself some pain killers. He couldn't get much at one drugstore, so he wandered to three different ones just in case anyone would ask questions. Nobody noticed anything. Then, he went searching for his sister's alcohol stash – he knew she always had one, being the closed alcoholic she was. It took him about three hours before he found it – after all, it was strange that one would hide away their alcohol supply in the cupboard under one's underwear. But he did find it.

His plan was perfect. The woman won't come back until tomorrow-always gone for the day when "working" - the way she called her alcoholic escapades in other citys. He took a great amount of the pain relievers, nearly all of the three packages, and drowned them with the whiskey. It was even more disgusting than he imagined. Then, he waited for about an hour. When he got up from his bed he was drowsy and swayed a little on his way to the bathroom. It took him about ten minutes, or so he thought- he couldn't be too sure in his hazed state.

He didn't bother to undress when he lowered himself in the tub. At least, he had been thinking far enough ahead as to fill it before he took the pills. The now only lukewarm water nearly spilled over, but he couldn't care less. The carpet cutter nearly fell out of his hand as it was shaking so hard. If he was honest with himself, he would recognize the shaking as fear. But he didn't want to think at all. He had made up his mind, and he wasn't going to change it.

He slipped twice when trying to cut his wrist. Earlier, he had done some research and knew not to cut "across the street but along the road", as some might say- but, seriously, it was harder than he anticipated to find the artery. His sight was becoming blurred, he had to speed things up, or he would lose consciousness and then he would royally fuck this up. By the third time, he made a deep gash from the elbow to his wrist, and he watched in awe as his blood poured out of his arm. He wasn't sure if he had struck the artery, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He laid back down, and, thanks to the pain killers, he didn't feel more than a slight sting. He was strangely calm. Deep down, he knew something was wrong when he heard a door open and a voice calling his name, but right now he couldn't bring himself to care.

By the time the bathroom door burst open, the boy was so high he didn't even notice he wasn't alone any more.

"Hey kiddo... Shit – John? What the hell are you doing, kid? What's going on? Answer me! John? John!" John didn't hear the panic, but he recognised the voice somehow.

"Hey, Sis... why are you back?", he murmured incoherently. After that, all went into a strange black blur.

* * *

It took him two days to wake up again. When he noticed the white walls and the strange aseptic scent, he knew something had gone terribly wrong. He should have been dead by now. But, somehow, he couldn't even manage that. Great.

His sister sat by his bedside, fast asleep. He knew exactly how deep he was in trouble when he observed the brochures for asylums on his blanket. He had fucked up – again.

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Thanks so much for reading, and I'd appreciate any form of contact, especially critics, since I'd love to improve both my writing and my english.

See you soon - Trying to post at least once a week.


	2. Chapter 1 - The first step is always the

And here I'm again - posting the first chapter. Thanks a lot to **Samayori** for the review, I really appreciate it and I'll try to follow your advice ^^

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**Chapter 1 – The first step is always the hardest**

**One year and 3 months later.**

_He was floating. Floating into nothingness. There wasn't any color, all was black. It was freezing, his teeth were chattering, but he couldn't hear anything. There was an absolute absence of sound. It was strange, but it wasn't frightening. He kept floating, it was peaceful, he was at ease, for once his ever whirling mind was put to halt. He decided he liked it, until..._

"Freak!" an angry voice shouted. He nearly fell out of bed as somebody thundered against his bedroom door. "Get your lazy ass down here at once." Still sleepy he rubbed his eyes. The voice called again, sounding even more irate than before. Light was floating through the window opposite to his bed, the thick blue curtains weren't closed. Normally they would stay open, for he didn't bother to sleep. He rarely ever slept. To sleep meant horror, it meant nightmares. Strangely enough he did sleep the previous night. From time to time he lost the battle against his body – his transport.

The light on his bedside table was still on and the book which he was reading some hours before lay right beside his pillow. A yawn forced itself upon him, he aborted it.

He didn't even remember falling asleep, but it seemed as he had been sleeping at least three hours. Which would be three hours more than he normally got. Nevertheless he was still tired.

"Sherlock!", the voice sounded furious and outright hateful by now. Uh, back to names than, that was never a good sign. "Coming..."; the boy murmured.

It didn't take him long to make himself ready, although with his right hand being in a cast getting dressed was an interesting affair, and to descend from his first floor bedroom down to the kitchen as his father ordered. He was pretty sure his father only wanted him to join breakfast because he knew Sherlock disliked it. As usual he ate very little and he felt the dark eyes of his father boring into his head. Like any other day Sherlock ignored him, his face an ever stoic mask, showing nothing, knowing quite well it would irritate the other even more. He was playing a dangerous game, he knew. There was only so much his father was going to take from him.

"Get going.", the man growled and Sherlock almost flinched at the harsh sound, startled. But his face was as indifferent as it always was when he did as he was told. Eventually it wouldn't do him any good to disobey the other and anger him even more.

Within five minutes he was out of the door. However, he wasn't fast enough, for his father had shoved him again into the door and the handle had made painful contact with his left tight.

It didn't really hurt, not like other times, but his stomach strongly disapproved of the manhandling this early in the morning accompanied with the food it was forced to digest. He made it to the trash bin just in time. His stomach seized and he emptied its contents violently behind the trash. The episode passed as quickly as it begun. He starred at the floor, tears clouding his eyes and the sour smell of vomit assaulting his nose. This has become a frightening habit of his.

He choked again, but his stomach was empty now. "Shit...", he whispered silently.

"Sherlock!", this time, it was his brother. He tried to stand straight, but he could see the worry on his face already. Of course, none besides him would recognize the slightly lifted eyebrow and the almost invisible twitch of the corner of his mouth as "worry", but Sherlock knew his brother better than he cared to admit.

Mycroft was at his side even before he could try and get away from the trash bins. "You're even more pale than you normally are, little brother. You're sick again? And what happened to your arm?", he asked, his voice steady but Sherlock could hear the soft quiver in it. "I'm okay, just fell off the stairs.", he brushed it off. They both knew the story about falling down the stairs was a blatant lie, but neither of them said anything about it.

"This smell... you've thrown up yet again? You know, you should be more careful, eating in the morning...", he tuned his voice out. Since Mycroft had left the family-residence for university and after that started to work at the government, when they saw each other he would fuss even more over him than when they shared a home. They never were as close as after Mycroft started living elsewhere.

"Mycroft. Why are you here?" He felt his cold grey eyes on him. "Father.", he said. "He wanted to see me. Said something about me not being around since eastertime." He shrugged.

"Then you should go find him. Guess he's in the kitchen - that's where I last saw him."

Mycroft eyed him up critically. He knew perfectly well, what was going on in the big, dark mansion their father called his own. But Sherlock would never admit anything, although he tried to get him to talk quite a few times. Nevertheless, he couldn't do anything. Not against their father. Not with his political influence. Maybe sometime in the future, but for now he could only stand by and watch, as much as he loathed it.

Sherlock knew where his brother's thoughts where traveling, and he knew it was his fault. Somehow Mycroft would see right trough his facade of indifference and listlessness and with a squint of his dark gray eyes he would bring him to reveal himself.

"I need to go to school anyway." Mycroft nodded in agreement. And he left him standing in front of the grant family home with the extensive garden which seemed both somehow dull to him since he was living there alone with his father. He crossed his hands in front of his chest, his fingers clawed to the ends of the sleeves of his black pullover.

It was a sunny day and he enjoyed the walk to school. He liked nature, the feeling of absolute freedom surrounding him, and he embraced it greedily, although he knew it was just an illusion. Sometimes he wondered if this existence he led could be an illusion as well. That would clear some things up. Things like him going without food nor sleep for quite a few days and still not being admitted to a nuthouse.

"Sherlock?", a soft voice asked behind him. He slowed down a bit to allow the owner of the voice to catch up. A rather small girl appeared by his side, Helena something was here name. "Good morning.", she greeted. She lived in the house next to his father's, and made a habit of accompany him to the school he attended. Right next to it was the university she visited. Sherlock never talked to her much, but as she stated on the very first day they met, since he wasn't really talkative, she could do the talking for both of them. And after a month of more ore less mindless chatter and him trying to ignore her, he just gave up and succumbed to his fate. She wouldn't leave.

After another month she had him even waiting up for her, although he would never admit it. Of course her company had quite a few benefits, because there were no more... incidents on his way to and from school. Incidents like some idiots of his school beating him up – again. Since she was the daughter of the owner of one of his biggest enterprises in town, none had the bollocks to turn on her – or her friends, for that matter – openly.

Her dark eyes were searching his face, for what he didn't know. "You zoned out again.", she said, smiling slightly, flipping her long dark hair back. She was a rather ordinary girl, not really handsome, neither truly ugly. Her face was just a tiny bit to long, her eyes only a little bit to close to one another to be called pretty. But they were as dark as possible, and big, with long, full lashes, giving her an innocent air. Ever so often they would sparkle with laughter and mirth, making her face light up with some strange inner beauty.

She told him about her day, asking some questions in between and answering them herself because she knew he never really talked to anyone. It has been nearly a year since this strange relationship formed, it had been a week into the new school year, he remembered, on his way home he encountered three of his daily tormenters, as dull as dishwater, but rugby-players... Well, needless to say, he wouldn't have stood a chance against them. Helena interrupted their... fun, and although she was only a girl – and a small one at that – she send them running by threatening to tell her father. Most of the parents of the pupils from his school were involved with her father's enterprise, and everybody knew this little fact of course.

Sherlock didn't react well that day, scowling at her and telling her in round terms that he neither asked for her help nor needed it. She just shrugged it of, saying that this wasn't only his way to school, but hers too. And she simply wouldn't take another way. He huffed, but naturally could say anything against it. And then she just... stayed.

He glanced at her. She was two years his senior, but nevertheless more than a head shorter than him. Her frame was rather thin, and although she was about to turn 20 soon, she still had this childlike body and air around her. It was just her eyes that betrayed her true age, without them she could easily go for 15. On the rare occasions he talked to her, he had noticed she would crock her head into his direction. He could guess why – she displayed this behavior not only with him but also with others – she was hearing impaired. It seemed merely her right ear was affected since she made a habit of walking to his right side. Occasionally he wondered about it – why didn't she do anything about it? There were quite a few possibilities for her to improve her hearing. But then again he could imagine why...

"Sherlock?", she asked, and his thoughts returned to the present once more."I know you aren't listening, but maybe you should. I guess you'll need something to keep your astounding mind occupied with. I know that look of yours – you were just trying to depress yourself again, weren't you?"

"She knows me to damn well.", he noticed once more - he knew for a fact that his face didn't betrayed his feelings, it was the same stoic mask as ever. He had learned long ago not to wear his emotions on the sleeve. It would make things even more difficult than they were now. But somehow she would always know when he was spiraling down into one of his darker moods.

"Maybe I do. Since I know you for a year now, I guess that's not too hard.", she answered his inner thoughts, smiling up at him.

Sherlock wasn't looking at her. He wouldn't tell her that being with him wouldn't do the trick. She was very sensitive concerning his moods. But then again, she was the one he talked with the most. Or at all. If he talked – which he didn't do often.

Normally he didn't like people. They were loud, foul, greedy, brutal, nosy and were way to numerous for his liking. Being in school, in class, was like torture for him. He was called anti-social by all of them, and he was perfectly fine with that. For as far as he noticed, they liked him even less than he liked them.

* * *

School was as boring as ever. He sat in the back of the classroom, as far away from the rest of the pupils as he could get. The sun lit the room up, making it slightly less dull. It was a nice indian summer day. The leafs were already changing colours, but it was still warm enough to go without jackets.

"Class, today I would like to introduce you to our new student, John Watson. He has been transferred recently. Let's welcome him." This got Sherlock's attention. Next to his teacher stood a boy, man, whatever, an unknown male person. He was rather small, Sherlock noticed, compared to himself, and very slender with short ash-blonde hair. He looked tired. This was the first real school in quite a long time the boy attended, Sherlock deduced by the way this John-person held himself and his eyes flickered around the room seemingly finding and memorizing the exits and potential escapes. He seemed really uncomfortable, nervous. His bag hung low on his right shoulder, obviously because his left was injured. Most likely a car crash or something along the line maybe even an accident with rugby, which appeared to be the only sport which he had played.

"You will sit next to Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Holmes, please raise your hand." He did as he had been told. The new one flashed him a shy although bright smile and murmured a "Hello." but Sherlock ignored him, just like he did with the rest. However, he observed him from the corner of his eyes. He looked kind of good, he decided. Attractive. His eyes shone a bright blue, like the sky on a midsummer's day. Although it was rather warm outside he wore a dark blue long sleeved shirt and tight black jeans which hung kind of low on his hips, although they were well cared for, it was obvious that they were hand-me-downs, either from an older sibling or – more likely – from a second-hand-shop. What he could spot from the skin seemed to be nicely tanned. Yeah, this guy would be prey to Sally and the other girls, maybe even for some of the boys. He was not to be envied. They could be trouble, even dangerous sometimes if you didn't obey to their very thoughts.

Luckily, they never tried to hunt him down, though there were some remarkable incidents. And fortunately he convinced them rather fast to let him be.

* * *

Art class proved itself as dull as he thought it would be. They were told to do a still life of some apples, nothing too creative in his opinion. It seemed this school wouldn't be too different from the others he attended. The teacher who had taken him to his new class appeared to be okay, maybe a little bit shy and some what young for a high school teacher but he was friendly.

The principal was another story. The man knew as much as anyone could find out of his (rather large) files. He was wary and John was quite sure the man had done all he could so that he wouldn't be allowed on this school. But it was a public school after all and so they had to take him in. Although John had some strong suspicions that his sister did point the law out to the principal.

Strangely enough the teacher – whatever his name was – didn't seem to know anything about him. He couldn't believe the guy would have been so nice if he _knew_. Nobody was. Nobody – except his sister and his psychologist. Not even his mother did look at him the way she used to. And he suspected the psychologist only was because she was getting paid for being nice. Well, actually she was getting paid for helping him, but that includes being nice somehow, doesn't it?

What ever. The kids in the class just seemed as ordinary as the school itself. There wasn't anything special, he thought, until... until he saw _him_. The guy in the last row, sitting as far away from the others as humanly possible.

He was breathtaking. First of all this raven black curly hair making him stand out of the crowd, but the very moment the kid looked at him he nearly choked. The fascinating hair was forgotten the second he saw his eyes. They were the most piercing green he ever saw, gazing at him as if he could see right through his soul and that wasn't even oddest thing. They were cold, those breathtaking eyes, ice cold and indifferent. They were lifeless and yet there was a silent sparkle in them to which he couldn't put a name on. And he stared at him, the bright eyes wouldn't leave his for a second. They wouldn't look away, those bright, bright eyes... He didn't notice the teacher introducing him and he nearly missed when he told him to sit next to this gorgeous creature with the bright, cold eyes.

When he went to the back row he noticed the guy was watching him. He smiled shyly and greeted him, the other one didn't react in any way. John examined the other, he was actually very cute. Apart from his scary eyes, that was. He was rather tall from what he could see – surely at least 25 inches taller than him, and very slim, almost scrawny, his right arm and wrist were in a cast. His hair fell into his eyes and when they weren't directed at him, he reminding him of a lost puppy.

The moment the bell rang was a huge relieve – that class was even more boring than he anticipated.

"So, would you be so kind and show me how to get to room 306?", he asked the boy, Holmes, the teacher called him, next to him. The other only shrugged, seemingly having no interest to help him. But John wasn't one to back away only because someone showed him the cold shoulder. He was persistent, always had been. And right now, he wanted to get to know the other – and no one was going to stop him.

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Thanks a lot for reading - I hope you liked it and I'd really love to hear what you think about it.

Countess


	3. Twisted every way

Hi everyone! Thanks a lot to **guest **and **jaimi** for the reviews, I simply love to hear what you have to say about my story ^^ Enjoy the next chapter and please leave a word or two ^^

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**Chapter 2 - Twisted every way**

The corridors of the school were buzzing with the sound of pupils and Sherlock felt a migraine on the rising. The teacher had told him to show the new kid around, and being the silent student he was, he obeyed. At least the boy next to him was able to be silent. He watched him out of the corner of his eyes – it seemed his shoulder was bothering him more than in the morning. Maybe because of the chairs in the classroom – they weren't exactly comfortable.

The sandy-blonde hair was matted on his forehead, it was quite warm in the building and the smaller one had to almost run to keep up with Sherlock. Noticing this he slowed down a little bit. Not because he cared for the other, of course not. But it would be tedious to search for the new kid if he fell back and got lost.

John caught his breath, thank God, they weren't running anymore. It was rather hard to keep up with the tall boy and his shoulder had been worse today than the whole last month. This going-to-school-thing was more exhausting than he remembered. Under his lashes he studied his guide.

Sherlock Holmes, the teacher had called him, interested him. This guy was absolutely gorgeous and mysterious. He was sure, the stoic expression the other wore was nothing more than a mask. A good one, great even, but a mask nonetheless. And he was dying to know what was under that mask...

John hadn't seen him interact with anybody, not even the teachers bothered themselves with the boy. He was just... there. Nobody talked to him, although there were quite a few whispers in class, when he greeted the taller one.

"Hey, fag, got yourself a new pet?"

John flinched violently – how did they know? How did they find out? Who told them?

It took him a few seconds to understand the insult wasn't directed at him, but at Sherlock, who just ignored them and continued walking. "Don't you dare walking away from me like that, your little girlfriend isn't there to protect you, so you better do what I say.", the voice was rather close now, as far as John could see it belonged to a boy who was in their art class. A broad, dim-witted face came into view, blocking their way. The boy was as big as his guide but easily four times as heavy. "What now, I'm either a fag or I have a little girlfriend, even you should understand with that tiny brain of yours that it can't be both, Moore.", Sherlock drawled, smirking at the confused look presenting itself on the large face.

John winced, he was positive this wouldn't end well. He knew a bully when seeing someone, he had been on the receiving end far to often for his liking.

"Don't be smart, freak, or live regret it." the boy called Moore threatened. The bell rang this very moment and saved them. Sherlock and him made it to the class just in time, three seconds after them the teacher entered.

Sherlock wandered of this his customary seat in the back row, well aware that the new kid was still trailing after him. When they both sat, John once more right next to him, the smaller one again offered a weak smile. Sherlock digressed from him and stared out of the window.

John sighed. Well, at least now he knew the other one wasn't mute but could, in fact, speak. And he sure had a nice voice. Even though he only insulted the boy.

* * *

The rest of the day was surprisingly uneventful. School was over at four o'clock, he headed home the instant the bell rang. His father wouldn't be home before 8 pm, until then he was alone with Mary, his father's housekeeper. Mary was an elderly, stout lady who had been working for the Holmes family since always, coming over to the house three times a week.

Helena waited for him at the school gates, smiling at him the way she always did.

"Bye, Sherlock.", said a voice behind him, he grunted in response. Helena lifted one elegant eyebrow, but didn't say anything. That was until she searched for source of the words and found John. She turned as white as chalk and fixed her eyes on the ground, unconsciously pulling at the hem of her shirt's sleeves. Sherlock paused for a moment, observing her and filing her reaction away for later examination. He turned his gaze back to John – he had a similar reaction to Helena, every color drained from his face and he just started fidgeting.

Interesting.

"See you tomorrow.", John murmured - and bolted.

"Well, let's go, shall we?", asked Helena, still not looking into his eyes. Sherlock just nodded.

Helena's mindless babble was normally a nice background sound, it soothed him, although he couldn't say why. Typically he would tune her out after at least half of the way. But today she was unusual quiet. He didn't mind.

The evening wasn't as peaceful as the rest of the day. His father was already drunk when he came home. He was two hours later than usual, the dinner Mary made was cold by the time he arrived. Sherlock knew he would pay, it wasn't his fault, but then it nearly never was.

His whole body hurt, he couldn't even move. He didn't dare to. He was lying in his bed again, flat on his stomach and just wished he'd be somebody else and far, far away from London... Then he drifted away into the soft blackness of a merciful faint.

* * *

On the same afternoon, John had an appointment to attend.

The door opened after the second knock, just as it always did. John smiled as he saw a dark haired woman behind desk. The room was very brightly lit, plants surrounded the few small tables giving an appeasing atmosphere. The walls shone in apricot, dark brown chairs lined up along them.

"Mrs. Lloyd, hi." She looked up from the notes she was taking, smiling as she greeted him. "Hi! How are you? How's the new school?" He shrugged. "Just like any other school, I guess."

"Made some friends yet?", she inquired. A small smile graced his lips, his eyes lingered somewhere above the secretary's head. "I take that as a yes." He didn't bother to answer, but the his smile broadened.

"Take a seat, Miss Wilson has got an appointment, it will just take about five more minutes, then she is here for you." John nodded, making himself comfortable into the chair closest to Mrs. Lloyd. He took his french work book out – why did he need to learn this language anyway? It didn't even sound right. And it was ridiculously difficult.

Ten minutes later a girl left Miss Wilson's office. John didn't bother to look up, he never did. He knew some of her other patients, but he never tried to make friends with them. It would be easier for him if he acquainted himself with someone who already knew he wasn't normal. Or healthy. Or mentally stable. Or whatever.

"John?", Miss Wilson's voice startled him out of his thoughts. She seemed impatient, but then, she typically was. Unless you talked to her in the sessions. Then she could be the most patient person he ever knew. He packed his book away, and went into her office after her.

The room was as bright as the waiting room, the walls a darker shade of apricot and there were fewer plants, but it was still very nice. There was a large desk at the wall, right under the only window of the room. Alice Wilson sat down facing him. He slumped down into the chair across from his psychologist.

"So – how have you been since our last meeting?", she inquired.

"Ok, I guess. I've been sleeping better, since the change of medication."

"That's what I hoped for. What about the nightmares? Better?"

"Somehow. Slightly.", he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, avoiding her dark brown eyes.

"That means no."

"Not really. I guess it will take a while until the meds kick in?"

She nodded. "About three to six weeks actually. Since we just changed to something new, I guess it will be another month until we can say if they work. At least you are able to sleep now. How much do you take now?"

"150mg every morning."

"Are you ok with it? Do you want to try more?"

"No, the meds make me drowsy. It's hard to concentrate in school. I'm tired all the time. When I started taking them last week I fell asleep two hours afterwards. It was nearly impossible to stay awake. Maybe I could take them in the evening? Right before I go to bed?", he said, trying not to sound to hopeful.

"I don't know. Normally you should take them in the morning. Your organism isn't used to the new medication. Try it for another week. If you are still having problems then, we may talk to a doctor. Does that sound like an idea?"

He nodded reluctantly.

"Ok. So have you thought about continuing the art therapy? I know you're happy you are no longer in hospital treatment but I believe it would do you good, going on with the group. We can reschedule so it won't clash with school duties."

He simply stayed quiet. True, the art therapy had been fun but to go back there? It has only been a month since he got out of the asylum for good. He didn't want to go back. Not even for the 50 minutes of art therapy. He knew perfectly well that they wouldn't lock him up in there but... there was this fear. Irrational fear, yes, but fear nonetheless. Fear that they wouldn't let him go once they get hold of him again.

"John?", she asked, startling him again.

"Yeah, I thought about it. I'm not sure although. Is it possible to take part of the therapy even if I'm no longer in the ward?", he asked shyly. She wouldn't try and put him in there again, now, would she?

"That shouldn't be a problem since I know the guy who supervises the therapy – he owes me a favor. So would you like to go on? Should I tell him to expect you?"

Nervously he bit on his lower lip. "I think I could try. I mean I can stop if I don't like it, can't I?"

Alice Wilson, sensing his fear, nodded her consent. "Of course. Just say so and you don't need to go there ever more, ok?" She received a small smile for her reassurance.

"Okay then – about what do you want to talk today? How about your new school? It was your first day, wasn't it? You told me last time that you were nervous about the reaction your principal showed after seeing your file. Did he gave you a hard time?"

And with this his therapy session went on, Miss Wilson asking questions, he trying to answer them. Sometimes it worked sometimes – mostly actually - it didn't. It was just like the whole last year. His sister and mother paid the expensive bills in hope to get him better, but after all this time he wasn't so sure anymore if this would ever work out.

Miss Wilson was nice and surprisingly patient concerning him but he didn't tell her everything. He couldn't tell her everything. She knew he was skirting around some secrets, but she never really asked. She tried approaching his time in the juvenile facility once or twice but he dismissed it rather quickly. Miss Wilson knew there was something wrong, she just couldn't quite put her finger on it. But then if he didn't want to talk about it, she couldn't force him to do so.

But for all that, they were treading water and they both knew, for him to make progress, he needed to talk about whatever happened in the facility.

However she could remember very well how long it had taken him before he spoke about the reason he entered the facility in the first place. After all this harmless, innocent looking kid with the deep blue eyes and the sandy hair in front of her had killed another human being.

* * *

Thanks a lot for reading ^^ see you soon ^^


	4. Cloaked under the night

Hi everyone - here comes the new chapter ^^ Thanks to Samayori, kiras70 and Cahaya Nightdreamer for the reviews, I really appreciate them. And thanks to Jaemi for helping me with a particular hard paragraph ^^

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**Chapter 3 - Cloaked under the night**

_It was dark, so dark. Pitch black. No moon, no stars. Clouds? Maybe. Light -a little bit of light. An old street lantern, flickering. It is cold, close to new years eve. There are voices, talking, laughing, chattering. Who is it? He remembers being with HIM, they where out on a date, in a club. He can't recall the name of the club, but it was loud, very loud. Not only the people, but the music too. What happened there? Did anything happen? He had a strange feeling of fear in the gut._

_They are directing home, not his own, but that of his BOYFRIEND. It is an old building, big. A mansion. Trees rustling with the cold winter wind. He shivers. They aren't alone, he could hear other voices. But he doesn't know who's with them, doesn't recognize the people talking._

_Then there was nothing. Nothing but fear and pain and fear and pain and HIS laughter, HIS loud, cruel, cold laughter and..._

He woke with a start, a strange ringing in his ears. It took him a while before he recognized the ringing as his own shrill voice, screaming bloody murder. The door burst open, his sister stumbling into his room, hair disheveled from sleep, wearing a nightshirt, but wide awake.

"Hey, hey, its okay, John. Everything is okay. You're at home now, nobody is going to hurt you." Harry blinked, her eyes unseeing in the darkness of her brother's bedroom. There, there he was, right in front of his bed, sitting on the floor, his back in the corner between bed and bedside table, shaking from another nightmare, at least the screams died down right before she entered the room.

She cursed under his breath, not again. The older woman approached the boy ever so slowly, sometimes John needed time before he recognized his surroundings and understood that they mean no harm. This time, it took the boy, teen, she corrected in her mind, only a few seconds before he caught himself again. But the short intakes of breath and the silent sobs told her that it wasn't over yet.

Harry sat down onto her brother's bed. "Do you wish to talk about it?", she asked, her voice soothing and calm. John shook his head. "No.", he rasped coarse. Speaking like this hurt his tender throat. Tender because of the screams. They sat in silent.

"You are crying.", his older sister stated absentmindedly.

"I'm aware.", John said soft-spoken. He trembled slightly, the fear always stayed with him after a nightmare.

"You can go to bed now, Sis.", he whispered after a while. He knew the other has to work in the morning, he didn't need her to stay awake with him.

"You sure?", the older inquired. John nodded. "I'm fine now.", he assured, but they both knew it was a blatant lie. The older stood up nevertheless. "Try to sleep, kiddo.", she said, leaving the bedroom.

John heard the door close and sighed. He reached over to the bedside table, taking the smaller of the three blisters of pills and took one, swallowing it dry. Miss Wilson gave them to him, in case of another nightmare, so he could calm down. Carefully he stood from the floor, placing himself on the bed. He was still tired, but there was no way he would catch some sleep, he never did after a nightmare. And it was only 3:59 am. Shit, this was going to be one hell of a day.

He stared into the darkness of his room. Then he reached over and took one of the other blisters. Miss Wilson said he should take his meds in the morning, but then, it was morning right now, wasn't it? He contemplated a little, but in the end he took his daily dose. He was feeling numb, but that was because of the first pill he took. However, feeling numb was much better than that ever lasting fear.

* * *

The morning greeted him with a sore body and a splitting head ache. He tried to move, but only groaned. Everything just hurt. Maybe he should call in a sick day? But no, it was only the first week of school, and he was fine yesterday. Faintly he tried opening his eyes. It seemed he had covered himself with his blanket at one point or another throughout the night.

Right now he bitterly regretted it for the soft textile appeared to be glued to his back. A tired glance at his clock told him he needn't hurry. It was not even 5 am, he had two hours more before he had to leave for school.

Groggily he dragged himself into a sitting position. Every damn move hurt like hell, even if he was slow and careful. It was dawning, he could see it through a thin gap of the thick, dark curtains of his room. Wearily he let go of his blanket, it still was glued to his back. With one swift movement he ripped it off him, biting back a scream as he did so. There was blood on the cloth, of course there was. At least it wasn't as much as last time.

He could feel a soft, tickling prickle. He had reopened some of his wounds by tearing off the blanket.

Sherlock stood shakily, his knees buckled and he had to steady himself on his bedside table. He was naked besides his boxers, so he could see his bare feet. No wonder everyone called him a freak, he wanted to throw up by just watching himself. He was sickeningly thin, even without light he could see his every bone. His skin was of a strange greyish colour and... he stopped. No reason to make this any harder than it already was. He grabbed some fresh clothes and retreated to his very own bathroom.

Stiffly he limped over to the full-body-mirror and tried looking at his back. It was not as bad as last time when his father had used this blasted belt of his. The skin on and around his shoulder blades was broken, but he had expected this. This was where the belt-buckle struck mostly. The rest of his back... well, he wouldn't stop sleeping on his stomach anytime soon.

He stepped into the shower, maybe the scalding hot water would make him feel better although he didn't really believed it.

The hot spray of water left him feeling like his whole body was on fire but afterwards the blazing pain subdued to a dull ache. By the time he finally left the bathroom, he moved less stiff, to careful to be moving like he normally would, but he was perfectly sure none would notice. Nobody ever did.

Sherlock dressed his back with gauze, cautious to not do anymore damage than already had been done. He was becoming frightfully good at this – even with his right arm still in a cast.

* * *

Helena waited for him in her usual spot. When he joined her, he could feel her eying him up critically. Nobody ever noticed – besides from Helena. He knew she was suspecting something but he had confirmed his own theory about her home-life a long time ago although involuntarily.

It had happened about three months after she started accompanying him. She hadn't been there waiting for him like she normally was, so he had assumed she wouldn't come (wouldn't be the first time, she was rather often absent from school, it seemed) and went on alone. Turned out she just had been late, she had run after him, grabbing his shoulder to stop him. His reaction had been imminent. He had spun around, thinking it would be one of his tormenters from school, his hands about to ward off a punch.

Her reaction had been as fast as his – and everything as telling. Within a split second she had curled in on herself, cowering at the ground, her hands in front of her face. He had known instantly what had happened. Her behavior being as trained and as internalized as was his. It had taken her roughly five long minutes to convince herself that he wouldn't strike her. Sherlock had just waited, silently, patiently. That was the moment he had known her impaired hearing wasn't the result of any illness or what so ever. Repetitive blows to the head were most likely the reason.

"Sorry.", she had said, a faint blush on her pale cheeks. Nothing more. They would never discuss what he came to call The Incident - although he did contact child services that day. He didn't know what happened when the social worker visited her home two days later – but he noticed with dismay that Helena wouldn't come to accompany him the week after The Incident and he didn't see her for the following ten days. When she finally returned she didn't mention neither the visit nor his obvious meddling in her affairs.

He never contacted child services again – whatever they had done, it had made matters worse and they simply didn't do anything to help Helena. They never even revisited. Maybe they too feared her father and had family and friends who worked for him. He was a powerful man. Powerful and ruthless.

"You know, I'm going to be a social worker once I've graduated from university.", she told him on their way to his school and her university. He only nodded, he suspected as much. The saying goes, one will always become what one would need the most. She surly could use a social worker who jailed her prick of a father – but then, so could he. They walked in silence. Usually she would be more talkative. She seemed to be slightly depressed these days.

"That boy – he's new, isn't he?", she asked after a while. Sherlock murmured his agreement. "You know nothing about him?" He quirked an eyebrow. Helena knew he never knew nothing about anybody he ever met. "Well – what do you know?", she inquired.

He smirked. She knew how to get him to talk, he'd never miss a chance to show off.

"He hasn't been to a public school since quite some time - I'd say homeschooled but the state of his clothing suggests a bad financial situation so that is out of question. Maybe he attended a small school, or was homeschooled with a small group of children, so his parents wouldn't have to pay. Talking about his parents: the father left the family more than three years ago, the mother has to work to support the family. John lives with an older sibling, most likely a brother, because the mother couldn't care for him because of her work. He had an accident where his shoulder was injured which caused him to quit rugby. I guess he had to stay in hospital quite some time since he couldn't keep up with my speed yesterday in the corridors. I also believe he's gay, his reaction when someone called me "fag" was rather telling."

He stopped. Of course there was this strong feeling that he missed something. He wasn't just thinking about the behavior the only two persons which he kind of liked, displayed when they had met. Undoubtedly they knew each other before. Wherever they had met - it was clearly bothering both of them. But it wasn't just this. The way John held himself, walked, always as near to the wall as humanly possible, always watching his back. It was odd. It reminded him of what he had read about soldiers who were tortured in war.

Helena smiled at him. "You are astounding, you know?" she said then waved her good-bye at him because they reached his school. "See you later." She went on, barley looking up when she saw John lingering near the gates of the school building – just inclining her head slightly and quickening her pace.

* * *

School that day proved itself to be less dull than normally although that maybe because of John Watson. It was a miracle that he remembered the name of the new one, let alone his last name. Usually he couldn't bother to fill his brain with something as insignificant as names – it took him nearly a month to recall Helena's name. Only after The Incident he would remember it but even then just her first name.

The boy seemed to be an enigma – he was friendly to every one however at the same time he managed to keep all of their class mates at a distance. Of course this could be because it was only his second day but somehow Sherlock doubted it. He seemed to be comfortable with quite a few people at the room as long as they kept at least two arm's length away. Whenever somebody tried to step closer, he would retread, going so far as to snap at whoever dared to interfere with his personal space.

John was rather thankful that he managed to get another day done at school without any major incidents. The girl who accompanied Sherlock to and from school, Helena if his memory served him right, was standing outside the gates again that day. John watched her carefully. Sherlock's behavior regarding him hadn't changed remarkably so she hadn't told him where they had met. Maybe Sherlock didn't even know she ever was in an asylum? He wasn't sure how close they were.

John nodded in her direction when they left school and made their ways home. She hadn't changed much, he mused, since the last time he saw her a little bit over eigth months ago.

* * *

Thanks for reading - I hope you like it and I would love to hear what you think about it


	5. Masquerade

Hi again ^^ Sorry for the delay, but real life got in the way ^^ Thanks to Jaimi for the review, I really appreciated it. And thanks to all who followed or favorited my story or just even glanced at it ^^ I'm so happy to see people read this since it is my first story in english ^^

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**Chapter 4: Masquerade**

The rest of the week went by in a hurry. John tried to follow the line of the subjects, but it was hard. Hard because he didn't nearly get enough sleep, being woken every night from his very own screams. Hard, because of the medication he had to take and which left him drowsy and sleepy. And hard because compared to watching Sherlock everything seemed hopelessly dull.

The new medication his psychologist wanted him to take either did nothing to prevent his nightmares or didn't kick in yet, because the _bloody _thing didn't_ fucking_ work. He was frustrated. Another week over and yet nothing had changed. Sometimes he just wanted to leave it all behind and forget.

But as much as he loathed this existence he called his – he couldn't help to be a little bit thankful for it too. He would've never known Sherlock Holmes otherwise. He had never seen the other taking any notes so far – yet he seemed to be able to remember whatever he wanted to remember. Most of their classmate didn't like him, and John could see why. Besides being attractive and extremly intelligent which would cause enough envy, Sherlock didn't help matters with his rather... special personality. To call him a right git or prat at times would be polite.

Yet – John couldn't help but feel intrigued with him...

* * *

Helena didn't wait for him at her usual spot. She never ever was late again after The Incident. Again, she somehow wasn't able to go to university. Pensively he bit on his right thumb's fingernail. What had happened now? It was the second day in a row. It must have been severe, she'd never willingly miss two days of courses. She had told him some time ago that she had to work very hard to keep up with the fast pace of her lessons being the slow learner she was.

Sherlock couldn't reenact, he never had problems remembering anything he wanted to remember, he had always absorbed knowledge like a dry sponge absorbs water. But then again, he knew he wasn't normal in this regard, never had been. His brother was the same, they never really had to _study_ to learn things. They just _knew_. And that was part of the reason people at school didn't like him. Of course, the far greater part was because he always was observing things and telling people in plain language what he thought about them. Which normally wasn't much.

It took him about two weeks into primary school to know something wasn't right with him, that he was different. And it took him only a few hours more to understand people simply don't like _different. _They would tell his father he was _special_, that he was _gifted_ but even then at the tender age of six he could see right through their lies. None wanted to be bothered by him.

The insults and violence directed his way convinced him rather fast that it was safer for him to stay silent if he wanted to survive his schooldays.

_Freak. Weirdo. Psychopath. _

_Ugly, hideous, foul as sin._

Shoves. Punches. Kicks.

It always was like this. It never changed. His tormentors grew, just as the violence they bestowed on him.

By the time he entered high school he knew one thing for sure: he indeed _was _a freak. None was the way he was. None besides his older brother, but Mycroft was far away attending university and so it was just him. Him and the stupidity of those around him.

The indifference of the adults showed him how right he was and that he indeed deserved to be treated like this by society. Nobody ever did anything against it. The teachers just added to it by sending him to psychologists to _cure_ him, to _mend _him. Of course they were as appalled by him as was the rest of the human population. They wanted him to take medication since he was _not normal_, _not safe for others to be around, not mentally stable_.

After the first two sessions he knew what they wanted to hear. It really wasn't that hard to understand (at least not after he read some books on the topic). If he had to play act to free himself from the psychologists, then he would do so. And he did.

Helena was the first human being that didn't shun him after he talked to her although he only insulted her and her intelligence. She just shrugged it of.

After their first meeting and her continued company he tried to deduce her motive – there had to be one, right? But he couldn't find any. She was what she seemed to be – an absolutely ordinary girl. Besides her troubled home-life – which he had of course known even before The Incident – she was just like every other girl, just like the ones at school. She wasn't the least bit special.

And yet...

And yet he found himself enjoying her company while he loathed being with his classmates. He found himself looking forward to their trips to and from school. He found himself _worrying _about her when she wasn't waiting for him in the morning.

It started slowly – but it was fairly discomforting, now that he thought about it.

* * *

"Morning Sherlock.", John greeted him. He hadn't even noticed he had arrived at school. Discomforting, just as he thought.

"Where's the girl? Sick?", he inquired. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "You and I know perfectly well that you know her." John flinched. It was clear he didn't expected Sherlock to react to the question. "How'd you know? Did she tell you?"

"That wasn't necessary. None could have missed your reactions when you saw each other last week. It's clear that you've met before, and wherever that was, both of you don't want be remembered. It wasn't a pleasant situation in which you made each others acquaintance, most likely it was at a hospital of some kind, I know she's … sick very often. Of course it could have been at a facility of child services too, but although you don't live with your parents I'm quite sure it isn't because of some kind of abuse."

"What the... how do you know all of this?"

"It's obvious. Everything is laid out openly. You just have to observe."

John seemed like he didn't believed a single word.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It had to be boring in these tiny brains.

"Both of you turned as white as chalk, and avoided eye contact. She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, you bolted. Clearly you didn't want to think about the last time you've met. You had to stay in hospital for quite a while after you injured your left shoulder. The way you hold your bag, you're left handed, it would be natural for you to have it on your left shoulder, but you wear it over the other, rather stiffly if I might say so. Your father left the family over three years ago – so your mother has to earn the money. She had been a housewife before, therefore she couldn't get a good job, so she at least has two, more likely three jobs to support the family. That wouldn't leave her any time for you, but you live with somebody, every other day you have a lunch box with you. Whoever it is isn't very responsible, otherwise you always would have lunch with you. The person has to be either young or in a condition where they wouldn't be able to be responsible. Maybe an alcoholic. I tend more to the young person, your bag suggests it."

John looked positively shocked by the time Sherlock stopped.

"What the hell does my bag suggest?", he inquired, eyes still wide.

"It has 'H. Watson' embroided. Obviously it can't be yours. So you have an older sibling. Most likely a brother given the colors of the bag. Dark green and black. Not very girly."

"That was... brilliant."

Sherlock's eyes widened comically. Never ever had he been praised after he deduced somebody. "That isn't what people normally say.", he murmured.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off.", he offered John a small, tight smile.

They entered the school building. "Hey, fag!", Moore called over. Sherlock resisted the ever-present urge to roll his eyes. Again. Great. What a perfect start for a school day. He felt John beside him stiffen. Sherlock was quite sure the other had been targeted by bullies before on his old school.

Sherlock didn't bother to turn to face his tormenter but the next moment he was shoved against the lockers lined along the wall. A moan escaped his thin lips, those handles hurt like hell on his bruised back.

"Looks like you're on your own now, freak.", he drawled, pressing Sherlock hard against the locker, nearly strangling him with his forearm. "Are you mad? Let him down!", John interjected but Moore ignored him. "Poor you, there will be no more little girlfriend saving your ass. Now you're all mine.", he grinned, baring his teeth.

"What... what are you talking about?", Sherlock choked out. His mind worked on overdrive – what could have happened? What could Moore know?

Moore's smirk broadened even more, now being positively vicious. "You don't know, do you, freak? Nobody told the psychopath, nobody deemed him important enough. Ah, that must hurt your snotty self. Should I tell you, fag?" His eyes were gleaming with rancorousness. By now he was leaning heavily against Sherlock's throat. He bent forward to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

"She's in the hospital, took some pills and was stupid enough to fall down the stairs. They said she hurt this big head of hers pretty hard. She might not even wake up again.", he stepped back, Sherlock was to shocked to react, he fell down to his knees, coughing, his hand at his throat, staring at the floor in front of him with wide unseeing eyes, wheezing.

Moore was laughing, taking a newspaper out of his bag and tossed it at the floor.

"Daughter of well -known businessman in coma – suicide attempt gone wrong?", was the headline.

John was at his side the instant Sherlock's knees had touched the floor, kneeling next to him, steadying him. His grasp on Sherlock's arm tightened.

"I think... I think I might going to be sick.", Sherlock murmured, choking.

John reacted fast, hurling him up and through the corridor right into the boy's restroom. The bell rang, they were alone. The taller one sunk down in front of one of the toilet bowls and retched. John stood behind him and watched him helplessly.

The sour smell of vomit hit John's nostrils. Sherlock was still heaving. After a few more minutes he sat back on the chilly tiles, his face drenched in cold sweat. He was breathing heavily, his dark locks matted on his waxen forehead. He stared into space, lost in thought.

John examined him, he could feel those bright blue eyes on him. "I want to see her.", Sherlock stated all of a sudden.

"Was he right? Is she your girlfriend?", John inquired.

Sherlock shot him an angry look. "Don't you have anything more important to do than question me if I'm romantically involved with her?", he spat, fury evident in his piercing green-grey eyes.

John sighed. "She's in coma and therefore in intensive care, I'm not sure they would've let you visit her _if_ you're her boyfriend but I'm positive they won't let you see her if you're just a friend."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and made his way to the basins to wash his mouth and get rid of the sour taste of his own bile. "Let me worry about that.", Sherlock said and walked past him. John marveled at his ability to still being ridiculously attractive even though he just lost his breakfast in a toilet bowl.

"Are you coming?", he asked, startling John out of his trance. "What, now?", the shorter one asked. "Of course now, I'm not going to wait until classes are over." John shook his head. "No way. I'll come with you, but only after school is over.", he put an extra emphasis on the word "after". Sherlock looked profoundly shocked. "Don't you see...", he started, but John interrupted. "No. Either you're attending classes with me or you'll be on your own.", his voice showed that resistance was futile and for him the argument was over.

To his complete surprise, Sherlock complied.

But before they left the restroom, Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket. "Wait a second.", he said, and started texting.

- I need to get into intensive care – SH

- Are you hurt? - MH

- What? Of course not, don't be stupid. I need to visit someone. - SH

- The girl with the suicide attempt? - MH

- It was NOT a suicide attempt. - SH

- I take that as a yes. I'll try, but I'm not sure. It's not like I have the influence Father has. - MH

- Tell them to expect me and a friend at 4:45 pm. - SH

"Now come on, let's get this over with." Sherlock said, leading them to the English Literature classroom although he couldn't care less about classes today. His mind was elsewhere. Was it possible that Helena, that sweet, ordinary girl, had tried to kill herself in earnest?

* * *

Thanks a lot for reading - I'd love to hear what you think about it ^^

Til next time,

Countess


	6. Façade

Hey everyone! So I had a some time on my hands and decided writting the next chapter would be way more fun than studying ^^ Hope you enjoy, and thanks to **Weyhe **and **Guest** for the reviews! I really love to hear what you think about my baby ^^

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**Chapter 5 - Façade**

He wouldn't admit it, but he was shocked when he saw her. She looked so … small. Almost tiny. And fragile. Like a child in a bed way to big for its little body. Helena's head was heavily bandaged, the white a violent contrast against her black hair, which someone – most likely an over-sentimental nurse – had bound to a thick braid.

She was surrounded by machines to monitor her heartbeat and life signs. It was silent in her hospital room but for the soft beeping of the technical equipment, working to keep her alive.

For about two minutes Sherlock just stood and watched, John right by his side.

To say John was surprised they were allowed into the intensive care unit would be an understatement. Sherlock hadn't said much during the first part of their school day, obviously he had been deep in thought. If it wouldn't be for him Sherlock would be still in a – by now abandoned – classroom, staring out of a window. John expected him to mourn for his friend but it seemed he was the only one to think so.

Most of the boys gloatingly made fun of him, calling him names like they did normally but this time they would go for Helena too. Sherlock ignored them which made them only more violent and less creative. John never left his side but that didn't help either. The girls were no better.

It was after the fourth hour, in their lunch break when John finally lost the last bit of his precious self control and exploded.

Sherlock's tormentors weren't impressed.

They didn't back away – the harassment just got much worse. At least he shocked Sherlock out of his stupor. John clearly remembered the surprised and amazed look Sherlock sent him. Did none ever defended him? Although, thinking of the last week and a half – no, none ever defended him. Not even the teachers. But that wasn't eve the worst. He remembered precisely how the spectators of his outburst reacted.

"_The psycho doesn't _mourn _for a friend – he doesn't have friends. He's just his stupid freakish self. Trying to be special, aren't you, fag? Poor freak, his friend is in hospital. __Are you going to cry, freak?", a dark haired girl drawled, after the first second of shock because someone just got angry on the freak's behalf passed. The girl smirked at Sherlock._

"_I'm sure he doesn't even know how to mourn."; another girl interjected and the whole bunch cackled. John bit his lower lip._

_How dared they?_

_They knew even less of the genius th__a__n he – and he had known Sherlock a mere week. He felt slender fingers touching his shoulder. Sherlock. John looked at him, he offered a tiny head shake. _Don't_, it said. _They aren't worth it_. John swallowed thickly but surrendered to the silent plea._

"_You're very loyal very quickly.", a boy smirked. John remembered his name – Anderson something._

"_What did he do? __Gave you a blow job?__ Let you to fuck him?__ Bet he did. And I bet you enjoyed it, didn't you? Fucking that tight ass?"_

_John saw red. Only Sherlock's death grip on his sleeve prevented him from jumping and killing Anderson right here and now._

A light touch on his shoulder brought John back to the present. A nurse stood behind them, a thin folder in her arm. Apparently Helena's medical files. "I was told to answer your questions.", she said, voice soft. Sherlock turned to study her carefully. "Do you know what happened? I only read the newspaper..."

The nurse, her name tag said "Miller, S.", nodded slowly. "Actually the paper wrote pretty much everything we know for sure. She took quite a few sleeping pills, the doctor estimated about eight. It wouldn't have been enough to kill her, but enough to get here drowsy and therefor clumsy. It seems she tried to get down the stairs and fell. Apparently she hit her head on the wall, causing a craniocerebral injury. That wouldn't have necessarily led to a coma... but she was alone at home and was only found a day after the incident."

Sherlock turned back to Helena. "So... you still think it was a suicide attempt?", he murmured.

"Well, it's hard to believe otherwise. She had her prescriptions filled in, but obviously she didn't take them since quite some time. We didn't find any trace of her anti-depressants in her blood. That alone would be suspicious. But since it wasn't her first try..."

Sherlock whirled around. "Anti-depressants?", he asked. The nurse nodded again. "After her first attempt she had to take Sertralin, 200 mg a day."Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What about the Pill?", he inquired. John turned slightly red at the question, even the nurse seemed to be taken aback. "Excuse me?"

Obviously Sherlock didn't take well to repeating himself. "The contraceptive pill – did she take it?", he asked again, rather impatiently this time. "No, not that we know... her father didn't say anything about it..." she stammered. "I'm sure you've run a complete blood count – look at it.", he ordered harshly. The nurse was flabbergasted but did as she was told. Maybe because she was flabbergasted, John mused.

It took her only a second. "No she didn't take it. If that's all..." Sherlock didn't even look at her, his eyes were fixed on Helena's bed as he waved at her dismissively.

"Yes, thanks a lot for your time. We really appreciate it.", John translated, flashing her a winning smile. "You need to go now, I'm not even sure why and how you were allowed in here or why I had to give you information about her. It's not standard procedure to tell strangers about our patients...", the nurse trailed sending them a pointed look. Clearly they had overstayed their hospitality.

Sherlock didn't react so John grabbed his arm and they both were ushered out of the intensive care unit.

"Something's wrong.", Sherlock muttered. John studied him on their way back to the main entrance of the hospital. He was biting his thumb's nail, lost in thought again. John knew better than to question him right now, he wouldn't get an answer. At its best he would get a confused look. At its worst he would be ignored.

"This wasn't a suicide attempt.", the taller one stated again. John sighed. "How can you be so sure? It wouldn't be her first, you know?", John said calmly. He could understand that Sherlock wasn't able to relate as to why someone wanted to end their own life. Nevertheless, all evidence led to the conclusion that Helena indeed had tried to commit suicide.

Sherlock resisted the ever present urge to roll his eyes. How was it that people just _didn't see_?

"First – since this wasn't her first try – wouldn't you think that by now she would know how to do it? Eight pills? Sleeping pills nonetheless? And no alcohol? She isn't stupid, John. She would know that taking pain killers with alcohol would be more effective. And then falling down the stairs? Why would she even move? That's just too much of a coincidence. And second: the Pill.", Sherlock said like it was obvious for everyone that the Pill was the best reason why Helena didn't try to kill herself.

Presumably John looked as dumbfounded as he felt because Sherlock managed a rather dramatic eye roll. "A few days ago she made me wait for her because she forgot something...", Sherlock trailed, thinking of the day in question.

_Helena halted for a second, reflecting. "What is it?", Sherlock inquired. "I think...", she started, worrying her bottom lip. "Wait a sec, would you?", she asked and dashed back home. It took her only a minute or two until she closed the gap on him again, capping a water bottle and stashing it in her bag. "Sorry.", she sent him an apologetic smile. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, studying her. She smirked. "You want to know?", she checked. "I forgot to take the Pill." she stated._

_They continued their walk to school. "Why do you even take it?", Sherlock asked absentmindedly. "Honestly?" Helena laughed, her eyes sparkling with mirth._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You don't have a boyfriend, why bother with contraceptives?" Helena shook her head. "You are aware that's a rather... strange question. We talked about social norms, did we?" She chuckled._

"_Well, besides the obvious benefits like knowing when to anticipate the beginning of my menstruation...", she grinned broadly. "Never mind, forget that I ever asked...", Sherlock interjected. Helena smirked. "Told you you wouldn't want to know."_

John watched him closely. What did he miss? "And how does her... period connect with a non-suicide-attempt?" He was clearly lost.

"Well. Since she obviously didn't take the Pill – it would have shown in her blood – what else did she run back for?" Sherlock wanted to know. John shrugged. Honestly, she could have forgotten anything. "Homework?", he volunteered.

Sherlock shook his head. "Remember what I told you, she recapped a water bottle, indicating that she just drank. She had taken some kind of medicine, and the nurse told us that she had to take anti-depressants. Most of them are consumed in the morning."

"But the anti-depressants didn't show in her blood either.", John wondered. His face showed his evident confusion by now. "But she filled in her prescriptions. Why would she do that if she didn't intend taking her meds?", Sherlock queried, his right eyebrow raised in question. "You mean she didn't got the real medication but placebos?" Sherlock nodded slowly. Finally, John had managed to follow his line of thought.

"But... how?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe someone at the pharmacy, who knows? But one thing's for sure: Whoever swapped her meds tried to kill her." His voice was arctic. John gaped at him. "You're talking about murder? But who would want to murder a student? That's ridiculous, Sherlock."

"Well, there's only one way to be sure.", a small grin graced his thin lips, as chilly as his voice was.

"Tell the police?", John asked, but somehow he knew this wasn't what they were going to do. And truth to be told he really didn't want to be at a police station ever again. Not his best memories.

"No, John. We're going to get her pills and look at them a little more closely." With that they left the hospital and made their way to the bus station. "But not today, tomorrow, after school. As far as I know her father isn't at home during the day. We won't be disturbed.", Sherlock smiled again. John didn't even get the chance to ask again what Sherlock wanted to do exactly because his bus arrived that very moment. The taller one got in and waved at him through the window, still smiling when he drove away.

John had to wait another 10 minutes until his own bus arrived, the whole time thinking what Sherlock had said. Placebos instead of real medication? At least his own pills have been changed a few weeks before... He wouldn't have been able to take one more dose of Sertralin, not with Sherlock's suspicion in mind. The idea that Helena's pills had been tampered with was unsettling, to say at last.

* * *

_It is a series of stop-motion blurs. He sees hands slap bare soft skin. He sees clothing torn apart. Hot breath against his neck and strong legs wrapped around his. Firm hands hold him in place, sweaty fingers squeeze his wrists, he can't move. He hears groans and frenzied laughter, his back and neck wet from sweat and spit. He smells cigarette smoke and hears mute talk once it's over. The jokes. The comments. The promises to return – and never an empty promise._

John woke because of his own screaming. His head was light and fuzzy, his eyes swollen with sleep and tears and it took him longer than it should have to recognize that he wasn't in imminent danger. Feverish he felt around for the switch of his bedside lamp. Crude light flooded his room. He was alone. None was with him. He was alone in his room at Harry's flat. Everything was ok. He was alone.

His breathing slowly quieted down from the heavy gasps which weren't transporting nearly enough oxygen in his lungs. Small, silent sobs escaped his mouth, he shivered. The fear was like a cold stone in his stomach. John sat alone on his bed and cried. Cried because of the pain he still felt, cried because of the despair and cried because of the shame and hatred which now owned his heart and body.

* * *

Thanks for reading ^^ Hope you like it and I would love to hear from you!

Countess


	7. The Dark We Know Well

Hi again! Here's the new chapter - hope I can keep up with my promise to post one chapter each week - law school is starting soon again and I'm busy with studying right now...

Thanks to **Guest** for the review ^^

Anyway - enjoy!

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**Chapter 6 - The dark we know well**

The second his alarm went off Sherlock managed to quiet it down. No need to wake his father earlier than absolutely necessary. Sherlock had passed the night reading online about suicide and anti-depressants in general and Sertralin and Helena in particular. It took him only about 15 minutes to hack her medical files. Honestly, either the hospital had a complete moron taking care of their online security or they just didn't give a damn. Either way it was slightly disturbing.

Helena wasn't ill very often, it seemed, or rather she wasn't seeing a doctor often. There were some broken bones in her medical history, twice her left arm, some ribs, once a finger. That was pretty much everything. He had to dig a bit deeper to find the records of her stay in the asylum. Truth to be told, he wasn't really surprised she had been admitted to a hospital after her first try to end her life. What surprised him although was that she had only stayed about two weeks there. It had been  
throughout winter holidays which was the reason why he didn't notice her being away. They would only meet on their way to school and university.

* * *

Helena had been away almost a week by now, Sherlock mused. And he knew for sure that Moore and his cronies would soon start to torment him again on his way to and from school. It was their sick idea of fun to chase him, catch him (because really, they were all rugby players and he didn't even bother to attend PE) and do whatever they wanted to do to him. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of their "fun" way to often to hope he would get out of it. It had been so many years that he had become indifferent to people like Moore and his father in many ways, just like he had become indifferent to the beatings. Yes, they hurt, yes, he was scared, but he never cowered in front of them, never panicked, never gave them the satisfaction of seeing how much they hurt him. And he never cried.

And sure enough they caught him again that day. He didn't even reach the school ground, they waited for him right before he left the park. That was their favorite spot, close enough to school so they wouldn't be late even if they would forget time over their "fun", isolated enough so none would see them. None ever went through this part of the park, it wasn't well cared for and there were quite a few homeless lounging on the benches and roaming through the woods.

He felt them nearing, a hand on his shoulder shoving him to the ground, laughter. They loomed over him, sneering and calling him names. Before he could even try to scramble on his feet again, Moore delivered some well placed kicks to his ribs. Sherlock curled in on himself. Another blow, this time aimed for his head but thankfully stopped by his left arm, shielding it from severe damage, his right hand cradled close to his chest to protect the cast on his wrist. Unfortunately that left his kidneys unprotected and with a low grunt he had to admit that Moore and his side-kicks knew at least how to inflict a maximum amount of pain within a minimum amount of time.

Someone grabbed him by his collar and tried to yank him on his feet. But Sherlock knew better than to give them more contact surface, curling even tighter. A cruel hand found its way into soft curls, dragging and jerking eliciting a low moan of pain and didn't let go until it took a bunch of the tresses with it. One of them seized his bag, tearing at it until Sherlock had to let go and whoever had his bag now held it upside down, spilling its contents on the dirty forest floor, pens, a few books, a writing pad, his mobile scattering everywhere. A foot came into his view, dragging his belongings through the mud.

Laughter.

Loud, cruel laughter.

"Poor ugly freak – can't defend himself without his little girlfriend?", they taunted and although Sherlock would never admit it, the mockery and name-calling was just as bad as the physical violence, maybe even worse because he_ knew it was true. _He _was _an ugly freak, he knew as much. And without Helena... well, he _was _defenseless.

They were five bulky rugby players and he was just one stupid... well, _him_. No muscles, no speed. He could never fight them.

One last kick to the small of his back and they left. A victim without resistance was only amusing so long.

Sherlock stayed on the ground, waiting until his ragged breath calmed, waiting until the hit burning pain in his back subdued once more to a dull aching, Somehow they always managed to hit the exact spots where his father already had left his mark. At least he had been generous with the gauze this time otherwise there would already be red spots forming on his shirt if the hot wetness he felt was any indication.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!?"

Someone called him. Sherlock tried to focus on the voice, to recognise it but he couldn't. Who was it that searched for him, called out to him) He couldn't think of anyone. Silence settled over him again, sweet silence, heavenly for his pounding headache.

"Sherlock?"

This time the voice was accompanied by quick foot steps. Sherlock felt them more than he heard them, his left ear still pressed to the dirty ground.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!", the voice exclaimed – obviously shocked. Whoever it was who went searching for him seemed to have found him, Sherlock mused. Of course he wasn't a pretty sight, being still curled up into a fetal pose with his belongings scattered everywhere around him.

Someone fell to his knees next to him and in anticipation of the pain that would surly follow Sherlock curled up even tighter, a small whimper left his lips when the movement stretched the skin on his back even further and a sharp sting announced the reopening of yet another gash his father had marked him with.

A soft touch on his left shoulder startled him out of his stupor – whoever was with him apparently didn't want to hurt him – a rare occurrence indeed. Sherlock tried to sit up. The hand never left him but tried to steady and help him. The world around him was spinning and he felt himself swaying slightly although he was only sitting. "Light concussion.", his mind supplied belatedly.

"Sweet Jesus, Sherlock, you look awful!", the voice announced and Sherlock looked up, finding himself being caught by the blazing blue eyes of John Watson which were now clouded by worry. Worry? For him? Sherlock was surprised, which he was careful not to let on. The only two people who ever worried for him were Mycroft (and really, he was his older brother. Older brothers _always_ seemed to worry) and Helena (although he still didn't figure out _why_ she would worry). And yet, here he was, John Watson, new kid with quite a past to hide – and really, he _knew_ he was hiding something – kneeling in front of him, worrying about a person he only met two and a half weeks ago. Sherlock was... intrigued.

* * *

John had been puzzled when he had seen the bully-gang emerging from the nearby forest. He knew for sure this wasn't their normal way to school – because they shared his way – and when he heard them laughing and joking about the "fag-freak" (really, that was just stupid – who had come up with this one?) John had become suspicious. He had seen Helena and Sherlock vanishing on some kind of trail leading into the park after school so he knew they lived somewhere behind that forest. With a sinking feeling in his stomach he made his way to the woods, starting to call out for Sherlock.

It had taken him longer than it should have to find the lithe, lanky figure of his classmate, lying on the forest floor, curled into himself in a fetal pose, making himself as small as possible -making himself as little a contact surface as possible. John found himself to be almost sick when he noticed the slight shivering of the hurdled figure and he had to swallow around a thick lump in his throat when he heard the small whimper of pain the moment Sherlock tried to curl up tighter. When he reached out to him, the taller one shied away from him and he could see Sherlock was steeling himself for the hit he no doubt expected.

Carefully John touched his shoulder, helping Sherlock to sit up. He saw the remote swaying and how the normally piercing green-grey eyes went unfocused. "Slowly." he murmured when Sherlock wanted to stand up but landed on his knees the very second he tried to get up from the ground. The taller one seemed to be dizzy. John scanned the things scattered around them then snatched a bottle of water out of his own bag. "Here, drink, helps with the dizziness." he explained, shoving the bottle into Sherlock's right hand. To his own surprise the genius complied.

While Sherlock greedily quaffed off the water, John eyed him up. A split lip, a nasty cut above his right eyebrow, a few scratches in his right cheek due to the grovel on the ground, a bruise forming on his right arm where he had shielded his head. The hair was a mess, just as his clothes were. That was all John could see, but the way Sherlock had been curled up... they must have had access to his back and sides.

"You finished?" John didn't flinch although Sherlock's voice had been icy and full of venom. Instead he sighed. Sherlock had been hurt and humiliated. Sure enough he would lash out to the next human being – even if said human being just wanted to help him. John understood how he felt, he had been on the receiving end of some nasty bullying too.

"Can you get up? The first two classes are canceled, Mrs. Grabiner is sick. But you should get that cut cleaned out and probably get some ice for your lip." John stated and absentmindedly began to collect Sherlock's belongings from the ground and stuffed them back into the bag. Sherlock tried. He really did, but his legs just _wouldn't do what he wanted them to do_! John took his right upper arm, helping him, steadying him. He took the bag over his right shoulder where his own was, shifting it a bit so he could hold both. Then he managed to sling Sherlock's arm around his neck, stabilizing him, taking a good part of the boy's weight off his feet. His shoulder would kill him later, but right now he didn't care.

Sherlock's knees nearly gave out under him a few times and John tried to readjust his grip and half carried, half dragged the other one forward. "I don't need you to...", Sherlock started to protest but it was rather faintly. "Shut it..." John gritted through his clenched teeth and didn't even bother to look at him when he felt a glare being sent his way. Sure, it would have been more of a threat if Sherlock didn't hang heavily on his shoulders.

It took them longer then they liked to make it to the school grounds. "You want me to take you to the school nurse?" Johns asked but wasn't surprised at the little head shake Sherlock gave him. Of course not. He wouldn't have gone to the nurse either. Mostly adults just make things like these much worse rather than being able to help. "Then we're going to the rest room again." John announced.

"Not this way. Over to the gym. There are rest rooms which aren't used normally." Sherlock explained with a slight nod in the general direction of the gym. Slowly they made it to the building next to the school and up to the second floor rest rooms. It was quiet. None was in the gym.

John dropped the bags he carried carelessly to the ground, leaned Sherlock against the wall next the basins and grabbed a handful of paper towels. He gave Sherlock another once over and started wetting the towels with cold water. "Here, press it on the lip. I'll see if the soda machine out there has some coke. The caffeine and sugar will help with the dizziness." John said and left.

It took him only a moment to return. Sherlock had slid down the wall and was now sitting on the cold tiles, head crocked slightly to the right, eyes closed and the wet towels still firmly pressed on his lip. John opened the can of coke and passed it to him. "Did you eat breakfast?" He wanted to know. Sherlock sipped the coke and just shrugged. "You brought lunch? Eating can help too." Sherlock just rolled his eyes – only to find out that _that _really wasn't a good idea right now.

"Stop to mother hen me, John. I'm fine." He mumbled into his can of soda. He felt John watching him closely.

"What about your back? They sure got a few good kicks there too, didn't they?"

Sherlock stiffened for the split of a second – his back? What about his back? - but John didn't seem to notice. "My back is fine." He retorted rather grumpy.

John sighed softly. If Sherlock decided he wanted to be stubborn there was no way how to change it.

They spent the remaining one and a half hours in the rest room over the gym, hiding away from the bully gang. Mostly Sherlock seemed to be lost in thought and John just sat next to him letting time pass by, sometimes watching the genius.

His mind traveled back to their first encounter this morning. Sherlock, curled in, hurt, beaten. Was this how he himself had looked back in his old school? Had they talked about him as they talk about Sherlock now? Calling him names to his face as well as behind his back, starting rumors, hurting him every possible way?

He had hoped he would never ever be target of bullying again, not in his new school, not when no one knew what he had done. They had no reason to hate him here. No one knew him. And yet... if he won't stop being by Sherlock's side and defending him... he would be targeted again, rather sooner than later. But somehow... he found himself unable to step aside and close his eyes like all the others did. He wasn't sure if the reason was the bullying in general or because the victim was Sherlock...

Nervously John bit his bottom lip, eyeing Sherlock up carefully. He liked the other. There was no real reason behind this, the taller one obviously didn't care to be liked or even tolerated but... Nevertheless, he had a strong suspicion about the feeling that nestled into his stomach whenever he had the chance to watch Sherlock. He just didn't thought he would ever be able to feel anything like it again. Not after _him. _Not after _them._ Not after _what they had done._

"Stop thinking. You're disturbing me." Sherlock drawled.

"Whatever. C'mon, we need to go anyway, class is going to start soon. Up you go." John announced, taking Sherlock's arm again and all but dragged the lanky genius out of their safety haven and back to the school building.

* * *

It was about 4.15 pm when the two of them emerged the park and stood in one of the high class districts of the city. "Wow." John murmured, examine the big mansions. Most of them looked rather old, maybe since generations the property of one family. But all were well cared for and if the walls were any indication – with extended gardens. The people who lived here seemed to be rather private, for he wasn't able to see far beyond the iron gates the villas all had. Trees and plants protected the estates from prying views on the street. John gulped hearable.

"So... Helena lives here?" He inquired nodding to the house nearest to the forest, Sherlock nodded. "What about you?" Sherlock jerked his head to the villa across the street from Helena's home. John's eyes widened comically. "Nice one..." He mumbled scarcely audible but Sherlock understood him nevertheless. He snorted. Sure, to everyone on the outside his father's villa must seem to be amazing, but those people knew nothing. They all were easily blinded by wealth and influence. Obviously John was just one of them. He shouldn't be surprised. And yet he was...

"What now? Wait until her father comes home and ask about the pills?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid John. Of course we won't _ask _about the meds. Least of all we would ask her father, he is the most likely that tried to kill her in the first place. No. We are going to break into that house and look if we can find the pills." He stated as a matter of a fact.

John's jaw dropped open. "Are you mad? They sure have security cameras and alarming systems around here."

Sherlock smirked. "Interesting that you're only concern is that we might be caught and not that we are breaking the law in the first place."

The smaller one sent him a glare but didn't honored the statement with an answer.

"They don't have security cameras nor an alarming system, Helena told me sometime ago when I mentioned that my father wanted to get some." He shrugged. "Now come on, no need to waste time. I don't know about you but I want to be gone before her father shows up." And with this he opened the iron gate and slipped through. John sighed heavily but followed him all the same.

He wasn't even surprised when he found out Sherlock had no problem at all to pick the lock to Helena's home.

The mansion's interior was as impressive as its outsides were. It was rather large, rather open with next to no doors and stylishly furnished. "I bet the bedrooms are upstairs" Sherlock muttered under his breath and made it to the pretty awe-inspiring staircase. At least it wasn't made out of marble or something the like, John mused as he followed Sherlock quickly.

They found Helena's room on the second try. It was – compared to the rest of the house – rather small and contained nothing more than a bed, a desk and an impressive amount of fully stocked bookcases. The desk was in front of a tall window showing the street they had taken. Next to her bed was a small bedside table and if one looked close enough, an inconspicuous door could be noticed. Sherlock opened it, revealing another room, the furnishing indicated a sitting or living room. A TV and a big sofa could be seen and more bookcases.

Sherlock scanned the room quickly then returned to the main bedroom, his eyes searching the neatly organized desk. "If you were an anti-depressant – where would you be?" He mused.

"Bedside table. First drawer." John supplied helpfully. Sherlock nodded. "Of course, since they are to be taken in the morning..."

A second later he held an opened bill bottle in his hand. "There we are.", he said triumphantly, and took one of the pills out. "Ser 200... they are engraved the way they should be..."

"We can't stay here – you've got the pills, now let's go." Sherlock didn't react so John grabbed his arm once again and within a minute they were out on the street again, Sherlock had locked the door once more.

"I need to examine these. I'm sure they have been tampered with." Sherlock announced and made his way over to his own home, leaving John on the street.

"Well..." the smaller one said, looking after the lanky figure vanishing. Obviously he wasn't needed anymore. He glanced at his clock. Better to get going, he had an appointment with his therapist in about an hour. At least he didn't have to make excuses to leave early... nevertheless, he was a bit hurt the other one took off like this, not even saying good bye...

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Thanks for reading - don't forget to feed the author - wouldn't want to starve me, do you? ^^

Countess


	8. Everyday A Little Death

Here we are again - a new chapter of my baby.

I would love to say my thanks to a reviewer but sadly, I didn't get one...

And honestly, writing this chapter had been a true pain and it would be so much easier for me to get motivated if I would know that there are people out there appreciating - or criticizing - my work. If you know what I mean ^^

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**Chapter 7 - Everyday A Little Death**

John really wasn't in the mood for another lengthy discussion about his feelings, his nightmares and how his art therapy was progressing. And yet he knew perfectly well there would be no way around it. The deal was crystal clear: He _had _to attend therapy and he _had _to take his meds otherwise he would be back in the nuthouse faster than he would know.

Miss Wilson smiled at him when she led him into her bureau. She had her long brownish hair braided, the thick plait resting over her left shoulder, much like Helena's had, John noticed. He sighed.

"So, how are you?" She wanted to know.

John just shrugged. "Same as always. I'm fine. A little bit tired maybe."

"Because of the medication?" She inquired. John shrugged again. He wasn't tired _because_ of the medication, not strictly speaking. He was tired because the medication didn't work the way it should – he still had nightmares every night – hell he had even taken to sleep with the light still on... again. It had taken him about five months of hospital treatment and a rather irritated room mate to get rid of that peculiar behaviour.

"The nightmares haven't improved then? Have you started writing them down – right after you wake up you should be able to remember, maybe you need some practice but it's learnable? It might help if you see a pattern and we could work on them more specifically." John didn't answer. He didn't need to write down what was playing on his mind every damn time he closed his eyes. It wasn't as if he would be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. But he would rather die than concede what had happened to him. What _they_ had _done_ to him.

John stayed quiet although he could feel the expectant look of his therapist on his face. She sighed nearly inaudible. But of course she knew by now that if he didn't want to talk about a topic he would just fall silent and stay that way until she would choose something else to talk about.

Another sigh, heavier this time. John wasn't impressed.

"So... What about school? How are things going with your new friend..." She searched her notes for the name.

"Sherlock." John helpfully interjected, a faint smile on his lips. The warm, soft feeling he discovered this morning nestled back into his stomach, spreading warmth through his whole body.

"Yes. Sherlock. You like him very much, don't you? You've talked a great deal about him in your last two sessions. You told me he is rather smart and observant. Does he know you're here right now? Or that you spent the last year hospitalized?"

John's eyes widened. "No, of course not!"

"You know, being treated for an illness is nothing to be ashamed of. Even if said illness is of mental nature. And you are ill. You made great progress, but you're still not fully healed. It will take some time until you are. A friend could help you heal, he could support you."

John snorted. "I'm quite sure he doesn't want to be supportive..."

"Well, you wouldn't know until you ask him, would you? And what about your scars? You can't wear long sleeved shirts in summer."

"Watch me." John deadpanned. Of course he had thought about it. But until now he hadn't come up with a bearable solution. Right now no one was wondering about his choice of clothing but sooner or later it would be getting warm, hot even, again... He didn't care about what he wore when he was in the hospital, hell, he wasn't the only one with – rather telling - scars on his arms and his weren't the worst, not by a long chalk. At home he didn't care either. But in school... this wasn't going to be easy. And it would be even more difficult to hide his... _weakness_ from Sherlock. That guy knew to much already.

"I guess we're not talking about that topic anymore either right now, but don't think it will go away just because you choose to ignore it." Miss Wilson stated. "So, I've read about that suicide attempt in the news papers. As far as I know you met the girl in hospital?" She inquired.

John sighed again. Trust the woman to find the next worst topic after his relationship with Sherlock to talk about. And how did she even know they met? He wasn't her patient back then.

"I did meet her. But we weren't close."

_It was already dark outside although it was only 4 pm. John could see himself in the window and tried concentrating on the street lantern in front of him. It was snowing softly, if he squinted he could detect the small layer of white on the windowsill._

_He leaned heavily on the wall, relishing in the silence surrounding him. A nice change from the ever lasting buzz of the patients in the ward. Most of them went home today, seeing as tomorrow was Christmas. Only the really severe cases had to stay in hospital over the holidays. Such as himself. Although they allowed him to go home until 4 pm tomorrow to celebrate with his family. Not something he looked forward to._

_A low moan startled himself out of his thoughts, when he searched for its source he found a girl leaning heavily on the wall on the far end of the entry to the day room. Her face was contracted in pain and her right arm was pressed to her abdomen. John didn't know her but he had heard rumors that a new one would join them in the suicide ward. Of course everyone thought it would happen _after_ Christmas, maybe even after New Year's Eve. Seems like they had been wrong._

_Another moan escaped the girl, she bent forward a bit, letting her long dark hair hiding her face. Slowly John approached her. "Hey, you need a nurse or something?" He asked softly, not wanting to startle her. Her head jerked up, dark eyes locked his and within a split second her whole posture changed. She stood straight, her hand left her middle, her face – grimacing with pain a moment before – evened out and an easy smile was on her lips._

"_I'm fine, thanks." If John hadn't seen her writhing with pain a second ago he would have believed without any second thoughts._

"_Touchy stomach? I know that one, too. Can be a right pain in the ass." He said, smiling softly, trying to comfort her that he would – in no way – ever judge her._

_She searched his face for falsehood and finding none, she returned his smile tenderly. "Yeah... they just let me out of treatment, didn't know I would miss the IV that much..." She shrugged. _

"_You wait for a sec, I'll go see if Michaela still has some of that fennel tea and a hot-water bottle. That does wonders." He grinned, leading her to a chair next to the window front he had been starring out before. She slumped into it, drawing her knees to her chest, nodding._

_When John had returned with the promised tea and the hot-water bottle, they had talked a little bit. Not much, Helena – the girl's name, John had learnt – had still tired easily. _

_They had spent Christmas Eve together seeing as they were some of the few patients staying. After the holidays, routine settled back into the hospital. They really hadn't had that much time to get to know each other since Helena hadn't stayed long. She was released at January the sixth, the day before school started again._

_John had wondered briefly why and how, normally, patients in the suicide ward stayed longer than about two weeks..._

"How do you feel about it?" Miss Wilson wanted to know.

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He hated this kind of questions. How was he supposed to answer that? What ever he would say, she would turn it against him. So he settled for an evasive strategy.

"I feel sorry for Sherlock. He knew her well, it seems. And they were close."

"His girlfriend?" Miss Wilson asked.

He crooked a small smile. What were Sherlock's words? _Don't you have anything more important to do than question me if I'm romantically involved with her? _He was sorely tempted to quote him here but he knew it wouldn't sit well with his therapist.

"No. Just friends. But close friends. He was rather shocked... he didn't find out in a good way since he read it in the newspaper. He actually was sick afterwards. We went to see her... "

"She is still in coma?"

"Yeah... hit her head pretty hard." He said.

"I guess you understand now how your sister felt when she discovered you in the tube." Uh, he didn't like the direction this session was taking. He thought the woman was there to help him not to increase his guilt...

Nevertheless he nodded. Of course he knew he had hurt his sister. But to be fair he never intended for her to find him like this. Although finding him dead would maybe – surly, he corrected – have been even more cruel for her. It had been part of his therapy to apologize to her and after that, they never spoke about it again. Ever. Until now he didn't even know why she had come home early that day.

They talked about his sister a little bit more – she started drinking again after she had stayed sober for nearly 4 months. Miss Wilson knew how hard it was for him to think that it was part his fault that Harry started drinking again, it sure went to hell when she found him back then after his attempt to kill himself. Before she was just drinking occasionally – too much to be considered okay but nowhere as bad as after his hospitalization.

The sun was nearly gone by the time he emerged from his therapist's place. The wind was blowing harshly, gathering clouds darkened the sky. It would be raining soon...

* * *

Sherlock had been working on dissecting Helena's pills since the moment he entered his room, and now, nearly five hours later he was finished. This wasn't Sertralin at all. Of course, it had the right size, the right shape, the right imprint and everything. Whoever had made this sure knew his business well. The perfect facsimile. But the contents were all wrong.

This wasn't the anti-depressant Helena had been prescribed. This was a weak barbiturate. He had read about the medication she should have taken, it was supposed to make one tired one to two hours after being consumed. The sleeping pill would do exact the same but without stabilizing her mood. No wonder she had taken more than the supposed dosage – she must have been desperate for the medication to work. She had taken it since she had been out of hospital treatment – that would have been nine months now. Sherlock had no way to find out when she had gotten the false pills. She had been off the medication at least three weeks, otherwise it would have shown in her blood. To really _feel_ the change it would have taken about six weeks. It had to be not less than two months since she had taken the anti-depressant the last time.

He bit on his thump's nail again. Hot, white ire filled him only to be oppressed the next second. He didn't do _sentiments_. He didn't _need_ them. Not now, not ever. It would make everything more complicated and wouldn't help anyone.

So... Why would anyone do such a thing? John had been right – why would anyone try and kill a student? Compared to how her father had treated her last attempt to kill herself this time was rather different – now it was all over the papers. Why would he do that? Of course, the sympathy card got him quite some publicity for his business. He got to play the grieving father, seemingly heavy with guilt because he couldn't save his daughter from her self-destruction.

But other than that...

There wasn't a mother in the picture, probably dead or left (although Sherlock thought that highly unlikely, leaving a child with an abusive father was something even _he _was sure would go against every mother instinct) so maybe there was a life insurance and the motive was money after all? The reasons for murder were almost always the same: Money, jealousy or passion. But somehow he couldn't fit Helena in there...

Sherlock had been so immersed in his own thoughts he failed to notice that the comfortable silence of the house was rudely disrupted by the banging of the front door. He never heard the shuffling or the heavy footsteps on the stairs. He was so focused he startled rather badly the moment someone opened his door and stomped into the room.

"Father." He was surprised. How late was it? He sure had lost every sense of time while contemplating the problem at hand. The heavy smell of alcohol greeted him when his father Sherringford Holmes inched closer to his son.

"What the fucking hell are you up to now?" The man slurred, his breath thick with the smell whisky. Sherlock knew for sure his father had always possessed the capacity for violence, being the physical imposing, ill-tampered man he was and becoming a heavy drinker did nothing to ease his flaws.

He knew what was bound to happen now...

Sherlock managed to get his precious microscope out of the way and to scramble off his bed before the man had chance to lash out at him. He shielded his beloved science equipment, the one Mycroft had gifted him with from the drunken wrath his father displayed.

His arm was caught in a death grip and he was yanked forward, stumbling, falling. The coldness of the floor abruptly greeted him. Sherlock could hear a well known snap – a leather belt being churn in the air.

Sherlock curled in on himself, the reaction had been internalized a long time ago.

"Fucking freak, can't y'do anything normal? Always sitting in the bloody dark, always starring at weird things. Fucking weirdo."

Sherlock tried curling up even tighter when the lashing began, making himself as small as humanly possible. It had only been hours since his body had been subjected to the violence of Moore and his cronies, the bruises and aches still fresh, still tender.

"Bloody freak, look at you – what are you, a fag? Can't even stand up for yourself." Dry laughter accompanied the next strokes. "Bet you get off of this." The voice dripped with barley concealed hatred.

Silently he tried counting the blows his father landed on his back and side, trying desperately to distract himself from the pain and the hurt and the cruel voice, calling him worse things than Moore, Donovan or Anderson could ever come up with. And it pained him just the more because it was his own father...

By the time the man lost interest Sherlock was barley conscious at all, holing up in his own mind, sheltering from the abuse he named his life.

He didn't know how long he just lay there on the floor, eyes scrunched shut and waiting for the pain to fade away, knowing it would take days before he could even think to move without agony. In the morning it would only be worse...

* * *

The next day was anguish. His whole body felt sore like he had done way to much work out the night before. The struggle to get him out of his own bed was nearly to much and by the time he made it into his bathroom he was properly exhausted. He never looked into the mirror, not wanting to see how... _pathetic_ he was. His back felt horrible and inflamed and he only wished to crawl back into his bed and never move again.

But of course, that wouldn't do. He had news for John regarding their case and since the other _still_ didn't own a mobile, he had to tell him himself. Besides, he enjoyed spending time with the youth, he wasn't as narrow minded as the rest of the pupils and Sherlock had to be blind to not notice that the other was hiding something. And the genius in him loved nothing more than a good puzzle.

In school he found himself discussing their approach of the matter with John and they agreed that the police won't take them seriously if they would just strut into the station and announce the alleged suicide attempt was – in fact – a rather brilliant murder attempt.

They didn't decide on a course of action although Sherlock was thinking about talking to Mycroft – how much he might detest it.

All thoughts of how to proceed and what to do were put to halt exactly 14m and about 50cm before he entered his father's estate. Put to halt by a guarded "Mister Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?" Across the street. Sherlock turned and saw an elderly woman of east-European origin approaching him fast, eyes sorrowful and a thin writing block clutched by her side.

And just then Sherlock knew something had happened.

* * *

Thanks for reading and please leave me a comment ^^


	9. There Is Always A Tomorrow

Hey guys! So, here's the new chapter and I just wanted to say thanks to the **4 guests, Samayori and Weyhe** - Thank you so much for the reviews! You are the reason why chapter 8 had been so much easier to write than chapter 7!

* * *

**Chapter 8 – There's Always A Tomorrow**

The moment the woman hurried over the street, watching him with guarded, worried eyes, clutching a narrow writing pad to her side and stealing furtive glance back to the mansion Helena lived, Sherlock knew for sure something had happened. Something he wouldn't like.

It was in the way she held herself, the way her eyes glisten, the way she clasped the notebook.

"Mister Holmes?" She asked again, her voice hushed. He nodded his affirmation. She smiled softly but there was no joy in it. It was a sad smile, it portrayed sorrow, grief and despair. Her whole hunched figure screamed loss and emptiness, her dark gray eyes seemed tired and looking closer he saw something akin to horror flicker across her old, wrinkled face.

His heart clenched at her sight and his mind went blank. Within a split second all his deductions about her (east-European, Rumanian to be specific, 69 years, lived in England since she was about twenty, married for forty years, widow since nine, almost ten. Still in black, still wearing her wedding band. Still loving her husband dearly. Been with the family since Helena was little, working as housekeeper and had grown close to her, seeing her as some kind of grand-daughter since her marriage hadn't been blessed with children – sadly, Sherlock could see she would have been a wonderful mother.) became unimportant and fleeting.

Something was wrong, so very, very wrong.

"Helena's father asked me to... clear out her room and sort the things for charity. I... I found this among her old school books. I didn't really read it, just skimmed across it. There are letters in there, all addressed to you so I figured she would want you to have them."

Sherlock just starred at her, eyes wide and unseeing. He didn't hear anything after that first sentence. He had never been slow, had never needed someone to repeat anything for him but right now he couldn't wrap his mind about the meaning of the sentence he had just heard.

The old woman looked at him, holding something out for him, offering a small, tender smile.

"Excuse me – clear out her room? Sort her things for charity? What are you talking about?"

The woman's face contracted in pain like he had struck her. Her eyes glazed over and for a moment he feared she might start to cry. But she regained her composure and suddenly he detected pity in her gaze. His heart clenched again. What was going on – what was happening here? He kept missing something, something important, but what?

A cold feeling settled into his stomach.

"I'm sorry, I thought you have been told... Helena, she died this morning. Her head injury was to severe, she never regained consciousness."

For a moment it seemed like his heart just stopped and he felt himself suffocating. What did she mean – Helena died? It felt like a blow in the stomach. She died? He heard the woman talking to him but couldn't make out her words over the roaring of his blood in his ears. Helena was dead? A sharp intake of breath. She died in the morning? Because of her head injury? Never regaining consciousness?

The woman's voice cut through his foggy mind, talking to him still. He starred at her, his eyes coming back into focus again and zooming in on her.

"...so I thought I should give it to you." She stopped speaking and watched him expectantly. He just looked at her and then took the writing pad she offered at him.

"Do you know when the funeral is held?" He wanted to know. She nodded. "Next Sunday, Saint Mary's Cathedral, 9 am. The wake is on Saturday, 7 pm, also in Saint Mary's." She smiled softly, nodding again and turned to leave. Sherlock let his pale eyes follow her, studying the walk of the elderly woman, how she seemed to slow down, how her shoulders sagged, how she was more hunched when she neared the other mansion. He remembered her words, that Helena's father had her clear out the room and apparently she resented her task.

Obviously her father wanted to get rid of Helena and her memory as fast as possible. He examined the writing pad in his hand. It looked exactly like the ones he used for school, inconspicuous. Slowly he wandered up to his father's house and without making his customary stop in the kitchen to say his hello to Mary.

With a heavy sigh he slumped down at his bed and tried to get comfortable laying on his stomach., Resting his head on his arm, he was starring into space and thinking. Helena was dead. He was surprised at his own reaction, he had almost panicked after their housekeeper told him. Honestly, he liked her... _had liked_ her, but to be so shocked, so _lost_ – even if it had subsided thankfully fast – that just wasn't him. There was still the cold, hard feeling in his stomach and he wasn't sure what to make of it. He didn't _do_ sentiment, yet now he didn't seem to be able to get rid of it. At least not all of it. The overwhelming angst and grief he felt on the street was gone, pushed back into whatever dark vault of his mind palace it had escaped from.

Another deep-drawn sigh and he shifted to get the notebook in front of him to see why it had been given to him. A small envelope fell out. The long, spidery handwriting on the front said his name. Curious he broke the seal on it and snatched a paper out.

_Dear Sherlock_

_It might seem strange for me to write this letter to you, but I don't know who else might be interested. Maybe "interested" is the wrong word but frankly, I'm not fussed about it._

_You know, I think after the first month or so, you started to care about me. Maybe just a little – but you cared enough to wait for me. You cared enough to not talk to me after I embarrassed myself in front of you because of my cowering. You cared enough to wait until the panic subsided. You cared enough to call child services. Don't deny it, I know it was you. Who else could've been it? None knew – just you._

_It isn't your fault they didn't help. And it isn't your fault he went crazy afterwards. I know you thought it was. Maybe I should've told you you were wrong. But how could I tell you? I would have admitted that there was something happening. I know you know – you knew it probably the moment you first saw me. However you manage things like this is beyond me – although it really fascinates me. But then – you probably knew that as well._

_However, as I said, you might wonder why I write my suicide note to you._

_Yes._

_Sherlock, this is my suicide letter. I didn't know to whom to write, I don't have many friends, you see. I have colleges, acquaintances, people I know, people I smile at. But none of them know me the way you do._

_Please, forgive me my selfishness. I know I have no right to load this – whatever this is – upon you. Believe me, I never wanted to be a burden to anyone, least of all to you. And yet here I find myself, writing to you instead of going quietly. Why is it I find myself unable to go without any complaint?_

_Maybe it's human vanity. I don't want to leave this world without leaving something behind. Even if it's just this letter. _

_You know, there have been days when I thought everything will just be ok. I'm going to be ok. But I guess that's over now, don't you think?_

_I like you, Sherlock. I really do._

_Don't ask me why, God knows you did everything you could to dissuade me from this emotion. Yet... I can't change it._

_Be careful, Sherlock. You told me once to not only see but to observe. I did. I see you're hurt. I see the flash of pain in your eyes when they call you names. When they call you freak, fag or what else they come up with. I see how you detach yourself from reality. I see how you hold yourself when your father hit you again._

_Don't be surprised, Sherlock. Of course I knew. How could I not? It takes a liar to know one._

_Don't let them kill you. Please. Don't be as weak as I am. Be strong, for both of us._

_And don't forget me, will you? Remember me when I'm nothing more than a black stone on the cemetery. If you think of me sometimes and I can be a little twitch in your heart, that's enough for me._

_Sincerely, Helena_

For the first second he was just shocked. This was it then? Could he have been so very, very wrong? Did she commit suicide after all? He reread the damn letter three times, until he looked at the date. 18Th of December. Nearly a year before now. So... she had written her suicide note to him the last time – how come he didn't got it? He never knew she had tried to commit suicide before he visited her in the hospital nearly a week ago.

And not only that – she had known about the child services and his father. Guess she was more observant than he gave her credit for. It was strange to read about it now, to know she had survived her attempt but was dead now anyway. It made the cold hard chunk in his abdomen hurt even more. What _was_ that? He just didn't understand...

Slowly he opened the writing pad, revealing the first page - it was another letter.

_Dear Sherlock_

_Well, as you can see now I didn't even manage to off myself. I fucked up. Royally. And right now I'm in a nuthouse. Isn't that great?_

_Okay, that wasn't the way I wanted to start my letter. But really... The therapists made me write this one. Said that we (meaning me and the other patients) hurt other people with our actions and that we should apologize. Since you're the only one who I imagine would be hurt (I actually think my father is sad I didn't succeed in killing myself...), I decided to apologize to you._

_Gladly we don't need to send this letter, and none besides ourselves will read it._

_As far as I know you didn't receive my suicide note, did you? Otherwise you would have called me by now. Told me how pathetic and sordid I was. Actually, that's what I keep telling myself. Honestly, I don't even know how you would react. Better not to descry. I would be lying when I say I'm not happy that you didn't get my note... It was rather... whiny, now that I think about it._

_I didn't reread it (and God help me, I never will. I would be thoroughly embarrassed if I had to) but as much as I can remember... well, let's say I'm rather glad you didn't have to read it._

_Whatever._

_I really don't know what to write, I mean I know its part of therapy to apologize, but really, what for? It's not like you will ever know what happened, I can imagine that conversation or wait, maybe I don't need to._

_As far as I know you would be aware that I was stupid enough to overdose on painkillers the moment you see me. One glance and you could probably tell me the brand of whisky I used to wash them down with. (Chivas Regal, by the way, just if you wondered. I bet that will earn me a good trashing, it was rather expensive. Although I don't get why, it tasted awful.)_

_I ramble. They told us to write at least a page... _

_I guess I could tell you about the patients in here. You would have a field day deducing everyone. Nevertheless it feels like I'm betraying them even by only describing them..._

_I would like to know when I'm able to leave the hospital again. I'm ok so far besides having a touchy stomach but I think that's to be expected after one and a half packages of aspirin and nearly a whole bottle of whisky. Honestly I didn't expect to stay here that long, I did underestimate my father's joy because I'm out of his hair. But I don't think I'm going to miss more than a week of university, at the most two weeks. I hope he'll get me out of here before holidays are over._

_Ok, my page is done by now. Bye, Sherlock. Thanks for listening to my ramble for a while ^^_

_(Yeah, I know you'll never read this, but whatever)_

_Sincerely, Helena_

Well. He didn't expected this. So she never intended for him to know. And yet she had written not only her suicide note but also this apology-letter to him. His suspicions that her father had his hand in her fake suicide grew stronger and stronger. Frowning, he continued reading. Letter after letter and soon he recognized it as some kind of diary. It was strange but it felt like spying on her, although these letters all were addressed to him.

The length of the entries differed between a few sentences and one-to-two pages. Gradually they became lighter and Sherlock knew that had to be after her meds had kicked in. In the middle of February she seemed to be happy, she wrote regularly about an internship she did in a local youth center and how much she enjoyed being of help to the kids there. Her letters now ended with "Love, Helena" instead of the more formal endings she used before.

Reading through nearly a year of the life of another human being was rather weird but he couldn't help himself, he had to know more. Sometimes there was the mentioning of another female, Janine, who seemed to be with Helena's father. Those letters were always short and somehow filled with resentment although Helena never clearly said that she didn't like the woman. The mystery about her mother was also lifted: when she "introduced" Janine, Helena explained that her mother had indeed left the family when she was 11 years old because she had been pregnant with another man's child and had wanted to start a family with him. To say Sherlock was surprised would have been an understatement. But then, he already knew most humans were selfish, ignorant bastards. Turned out, Helena's mother was one of them after all.

The cold clump in his stomach grew a little bit when he thought of the girl Helena had been and the mother who just had walked out on her. And suddenly, he didn't want to be alone anymore, it was just too much.

It took him only seconds to call a cab and only ten minutes until it was here. Thankfully he had memorized John's address quite some time ago. Half an hour later he was standing in front of a huge but rather shabby apartment house and pressed the doorbell with the name tag "Watson, H."

* * *

John had been reading for an assignment he had to complete when the doorbell rang. He hopped from the bed, pencil still in hand, to answer the bell since he was alone at home. The door opened up to reveal the lanky figure of Sherlock. One gaze and John knew something had happened. He had never seen the genius to look so utterly _lost_.

"Sherlock? What happened?"

It took a moment or two until Sherlock's pale eyes focused on him.

"She's dead, John. She died this morning." He said quietly.

"What? Who? Helena?"

Sherlock just nodded and John grabbed his arm and guided him into the small four-room flat. He led him through the kitchen/living room into the bigger of the two bedrooms, which had once been occupied by Harry and was now John's.

"Sit down." He gestured at his bed, covered in books and papers from school. With one swift motion he captured most of them and put them on his bedside table – right on his own anti – depressants – with the – maybe naive – hope Sherlock won't see them.

"I'll go get some tea. It'll only be a sec." With that, he left the lanky genius alone in his room, still starring into space.

John took his time preparing tea. So, Helena was dead. A strange, cold feeling settled in his belly. He hadn't lied to his therapist, he didn't know her very well. But from what he had seen, she had been a kind, tender soul and had proven heavenly patience when she befriended Sherlock. And now, she was gone. And Sherlock seemed to be so utterly lost because of it, his heart clenched at the thought. That look in his eyes when John had opened the door of the apartment... He hoped he would never ever see it on Sherlock again.

By the time he returned to his guest, Sherlock had had time to regain his composure. The carefully blank mask had been replaced and he was gazing out of window.

John sat down next to him, handing him a steaming mug of Darjeeling tea with a dash milk, just the way he knew Sherlock liked it. Then they sat in silence, sipping their tea and watching the blue sky of a moderately warm, late indian summer day. They never said a word, but somehow they both knew their presence was just enough. Enough to become calm. Enough to keep despair at bay. Just enough to go on.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you'll let me know what you think about it? Comments are treasured and loved ^^

Countess


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